From the Corner of the Oval: A Memoir by Beck Dorey-Stein

Author:Beck Dorey-Stein [Dorey-Stein, Beck]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2018-07-10T00:00:00+00:00

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I FINALLY RETURN to the road for a day trip to Mexico on February 19, but by midmorning I’m struggling with this stupid, clunky boot and wondering if I’ve returned too soon. It’s hot in Toluca, and we keep having to walk back and forth between two buildings that are a quarter mile apart. My foot is throbbing and it’s not even noon yet. Everyone is miserable because there’s no food and it’s going to be an eighteen-hour day. The advance team has been puking all week, so no one is risking the buffet, and senior staff is annoyed with Teddy for not arranging bagged lunches from the Air Force One crew. I should have let Lisa take this trip, I lament as I limp back to the palace.

As POTUS shakes hands with Prime Minister Harper of Canada and President Peña Nieto of Mexico during a pool spray, I feel eyes on me. I turn around and there he is, smiling and waving. Jason. I haven’t spoken to him since Hawaii. I glare at him as I walk by, but he follows me outside.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His upbeat friendliness makes me want to feed him to a tank full of starved piranhas.

“You knew I did this,” I hiss, pointing at my heavy black boot as the press pool scurry by. They’re being rushed out to sit in a windowless room in the basement of the palace for more than an hour as the North American leaders hold a trilateral meeting in a botanical garden. That’s one thing I didn’t miss about traveling—the constant hurry up and wait.

Jason shrugs, amused by my anger. “I figured you’d have reached out to me if you’d wanted to.” Ignoring my palpable rage, he bends down and gives me a hug. I stand stiff, hating him, but also smelling his mint gum. “You look good,” he whispers in my ear. He leans into me farther, squeezes me tighter.

Over Jason’s shoulder, I watch a Mexican guard look away. “I’ve missed you, Beck,” he says, his breath hot on my cheek. It feels like a kiss. He takes a step back to look at me, but I stare down at the tiled palace floor. If I fall into those blue eyes, he’ll have me. I’ll forgive him.

I don’t look up until I hear him several feet away, slapping backs with his Canadian counterpart under an archway. We ignore each other when I hobble by in search of the press pool.

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